A full week of carefully orchestrated indifference had stretched, each hour a fresh thread of tension. Elian moved through the grand halls of the Obsidian Court, a silent scholar among the glittering courtiers, his presence as meticulously arranged as the books in the Scriptorium. Lord Kaelen Varrus remained a ghost in his immediate orbit, a space Elian pretended held no consequence. He often found himself in the Obelisks’ Parlor, trading cynical remarks with Seraphin and a handful of lesser scions, maintaining a veneer of detached social engagement.
Yet, a gnawing curiosity festered beneath Elian's placid exterior. He wanted news of Kaelen, longed for it with a desperate, unseemly hunger. He would angle conversations, subtly nudge Seraphin into discussing recent court gossip. A ridiculous, pathetic game, this refusal to swallow his pride while his insides burned.
“Kaelen? Ah, Lord Varrus,” Seraphin would murmur, fingers tracing patterns on the polished surface of a divining mirror. His focus usually remained fixed on the intricate play of light and shadow, a strategic game of celestial bodies. “He’s out again.”
Elian’s jaw tightened. He imagined Kaelen, a creature of raw instinct, a beast cloaked in fine silks. He understood the primal rage that sometimes gripped Kaelen, the untamed emotions that drove him. “To one of those private salons, no doubt,” Elian ventured, a cold bitterness coiling in his gut.
Seraphin chuckled, a dry sound. “Not this time. Lady Lyra arranged a formal introduction.” He twisted, a grimace on his face as the divining mirror glitched. “Apparently, they departed together, almost immediately. Like minds, or perhaps, like appetites.”
Silence settled. Elian felt his breath catch, a sudden, sharp pain. Seraphin’s voice continued, laced with a familiar derision. “Both so... unburdened. No pretense, no hesitation. An admirable lack of decorum.” It wasn’t admiration, but a sneering commentary, and a strange lightness touched Elian’s chest. He eased himself onto Seraphin’s antique reading lectern, tapping his shoulder in a silent gesture. Seraphin leaned back, a small shift creating space. He was the only one who spoke with such open disdain of Kaelen’s hedonistic exploits.
“Disgustingly unburdened,” Elian agreed, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“Precisely. I, however, am quite burdened.” Seraphin’s boastful tone made Elian laugh, a rare, genuine sound.
“Aren’t you meant to be? You’re a scholar, not a libertine.”
“There is no ‘meant to be.’ One learns as one navigates these currents. Rationality is a fluid thing,” Seraphin said, a smirk playing on his lips, eyes still on the divining mirror. Its surface flickered with simulated starlight.
“Is that why you remain unwed?” Elian teased. Seraphin finally turned off the mirror. He looked at Elian with an incredulous smile, tapping the hand resting on his shoulder. “I shall file a formal grievance, Vane.”
“For what cause? A jest?”
“If the recipient finds it unwelcome, it is grievance.”
“Seraphin, you are utterly preposterous.”
“Uncouth lout.”
Elian’s slippered foot swung idly, nudging Seraphin’s leg. Seraphin pretended to be shoved, then casually raised a hand, a mocking gesture. The simple, black ironwood cord wrapped around his wrist, a sigil of the Ascended Saint carved into its clasp, was exposed. Elian’s foot nudged him again.
“That symbol seems… ill-fitted for your temperament.”
Seraphin’s expression grew serious. “Why so?”
“It just… doesn’t align with your manner.”
“Doesn’t align? Strange. Do I not strike you as a devout adherent of the Old Faith?”
“No. It looks like a curiosity, a trinket.”
“It is not.” Seraphin’s voice held a rare edge. Looking back, Elian should have realized, given Seraphin’s full name meant 'the blessed one'. Seraphin’s house, it turned out, maintained generations of adherence to the Old Faith. More shockingly, Seraphin himself claimed devout practice, though Elian had never witnessed him recite a single litany with proper reverence.
---
Elian continued to avoid Kaelen. Whenever their paths intersected in the grand halls or the Scriptorium, Elian would offer a fleeting glance, then quickly avert his eyes. He lacked the courage to speak, to perhaps lose. The thought, that whoever desired more lost, was a pathetic, childish notion. Yet, it held him captive.
In stark contrast, Aric of House Rymon often sought out Elian, perhaps because Elian was the only one who didn't dismiss him outright. But the fresh bruises adorning Aric’s face each morning were a stark, undeniable testament to Kaelen’s continued torment. A beast marking its territory, even out of Elian’s sight.
Elian’s brow furrowed. Aric, catching Elian’s gaze, quickly turned his head, attempting to conceal the marred skin. Four more days passed in this tense dance. One quiet morning, alone in a shadowed corner of the Scriptorium, Elian buried his face in his hands. He wished to escape the ugly tableau unfolding around him.
The distance between him and Lord Kaelen grew starker still. What was once a small gap had widened into an unbridgeable chasm of despair. Opening his eyes felt like the rift would swallow him whole. Aric’s swollen eyes, the bruises like angry seals, were too glaring to ignore. He wanted to avoid everything, everyone.
Then, as if fate had granted a small, twisted mercy, Aric stopped appearing at court. Master Thorne, the Lore-Master, referred to it as an “absence,” but the hesitation in his voice betrayed the truth: truancy, or perhaps, a desperate flight. Elian almost sighed aloud in relief.
Meanwhile, Kaelen spent his lessons fidgeting with a small, enchanted orb, snapping irritably at attendants, or even striking a junior courtier for a perceived slight. Part of Elian felt a perverse smugness, another part a strange sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, with Aric finally departed or officially retired to a provincial holding, Kaelen’s interest would wane, and his attention would return to Elian. Confident in this belief, Elian waited.
---
A few more days drifted by, each a slow drip of anticipation. “Lord Kaelen seems quite subdued,” Seraphin remarked idly. Elian’s heart gave a heavy thump against his ribs. He wanted to look, to confirm, but he couldn't. In matters of the heart, he was a coward. He could only listen to Seraphin’s casual words and conjure Kaelen’s image in his mind.
But nothing changed. The day wore on, lessons concluded. Elian reassured himself that tomorrow might bring a shift. Things rarely moved so swiftly. He continued waiting, and as the final bell chimed, signifying the day’s end, Seraphin spoke, a strange note in his voice. “You and Kaelen… you had words, didn’t you?”
Elian turned, a reflex born of surprise. “Yes.”
“You haven’t reconciled since the Refectory altercation?”
“...”
“My, this estrangement has lasted longer than I anticipated,” Seraphin said, shrugging, hands shoved into his pockets. Elian avoided his gaze, muttering an excuse. “Truth be told, Kaelen went too far. I despise seeing such… wanton cruelty. It’s just… unseemly.”
“What is?”
“Aric is a noble, yes? The way Kaelen treats him… between two men, it’s simply barbaric. I wish he would cease.”
“My, my.” Seraphin’s voice was dry, dripping with sarcasm. “You are destined for the Empyrean, Elian Vane.”
Annoyed by Seraphin’s malicious tone, Elian glared. But Seraphin merely smirked. That knowing look made Elian’s face burn, as if some hidden truth had been exposed. He turned his back, ignoring the mocking grin, and hastened from the lecture chamber.
As he hurried down the corridor, intent on reaching his private study, a hand fell upon his shoulder. Assuming it was Seraphin, Elian spun around, irritation bubbling, and wrenched his arm free. But it wasn’t Seraphin; it was Master Thorne. Startled, Elian quickly composed his expression.
“My apologies, Elian. Did I alarm you?”
“Oh, no, Master Thorne. Merely startled.”
“I see. I must apologize, but… might I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
“Just a moment. Please.”
Master Thorne’s usually placid face was unusually grim. Elian nodded, a prickle of unease touching him.
“Today, Lord Kaelen requested Aric’s family ciphered correspondence address,” Thorne said, his voice cautious.
“Lord Kaelen?”
As Lore-Master, Thorne could not have been ignorant of the bullying within the court. Yet, he lacked the boldness to confront Kaelen directly. Still, he was not so cold-hearted as to entirely ignore it. His seeking out Elian spoke volumes. “I am not accusing or blaming Lord Kaelen, but…”
“No, Master Thorne, I understand. It is not surprising,” Elian quickly replied. “Well, given your consistent regard for Aric, I wondered if you might… accompany Lord Kaelen to his ancestral holding. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Elian couldn’t answer immediately. His teeth clenched tight. The possessive emotions Kaelen harbored for Aric, for whatever twisted reason, now felt like icy tendrils creeping towards Elian, anchoring him in place. His fists clenched tightly. He could not stand idly by.
“Could I… instead acquire Aric’s ciphered address?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me. Perhaps a discreet missive first.”
“Indeed. I shall converse with him. Do not trouble yourself unduly, Master Thorne.”
“Very well. I rely on your discretion, Elian.”
“Yes.”
Outwardly calm, Elian's insides churned with frantic panic. Master Thorne, looking somewhat relieved, handed him Aric’s private address from the official registry before departing the corridor. Elian had to stop Kaelen. He absolutely had to prevent Kaelen’s strange obsession from intensifying. The moment Thorne was gone, Elian pulled out his personal message slate and immediately activated the channel to Aric’s address. His leg jittered nervously, his hand clenching and unclenching as he waited for the connection to establish. Surprisingly, it connected quickly.
“H-hello?”
“It is Elian Vane. Is this Aric of House Rymon?”
As soon as he heard the voice, Elian rushed his words. A sudden clattering, a muffled sound of something falling, then rustling. After a pause, Aric’s voice returned, laced with shock. “E-Elian? Elian! W-why… How… how did you obtain my address? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. Master Thorne informed me that Lord Kaelen Varrus requested your ancestral holding’s location today. So, I asked for your contact.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you.”
“W-what of you? Are you well? Even as you attempt to intervene…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. Should you require more time away from court, contact this address. I shall manage the matter with Master Thorne. I possess a certain… influence, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Kaelen attempts to harass or accost you at court, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, a discreet gesture will suffice. It is always harder to rectify matters once they have transpired.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, retiring to a provincial holding might be your wisest option.” Elian injected that with a subtle emphasis, hoping Aric would heed it.
“...”
“At any rate, consider it. For now, either feign absence or retreat to a distant location.”
“O-okay.”
“Very well. I am concluding this missive.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elian.” After a prolonged hesitation, Aric’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. “T-thank you for always offering aid.”
“It is nothing.”
“I just… wished to say it. Thank you. U-until later.”
“Yes.”
“...Farewell.”
What ‘farewell’? Elian did not bother to respond, severing the connection. Hearing Aric’s voice, imbued with such fervent, almost desperate gratitude, made an uncomfortable shiver crawl down Elian’s spine.
What transpired with Aric that night, Elian never knew. He only knew that from the next day onward, Aric returned to court. Within a week, the faint, youthful glow of his skin began to reappear, free of contusions. Aric also ceased his sudden approaches, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more withdrawn. The abrupt change in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Elian’s mind. Yet, when all the bruises on Aric’s face finally vanished, Elian couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope—however unlikely it seemed.
Then, two weeks later, Lord Kaelen Varrus approached Elian out of nowhere. “Hey.”
“...”
“Elian Vane.”
“...”
Elian did not look at him, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. But his lips felt as if they might break open with a breathless gasp at any moment. Could it be that Lord Kaelen was finally tired of Aric?